Ashes and Stones
by XxIrisxX
Summary: The Arkenstone is found and of many, the Elvenking too is to swear fealty to King Thrór. Just before his visit, tragedy strikes Mirkwood where an ambush has most scouts dead and his own son missing. Enraged and heartbroken, Thranduil vows to make Thrór pay with fear which only a parent could harbour. He soon finds Thrór's truest weakness and perhaps his own. AU. Dark. Manipulation.
1. Chapter 1

**Ashes and Stones**

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Tolkien's creations. Sadly. Unfortunately. Really. *bawls*

 **Summary** : The Arkenstone is found and of many, the Elvenking too is to swear fealty to King Thrór. Just before his visit, tragedy strikes Mirkwood where an ambush has most scouts dead and his own son missing. Enraged and heartbroken, Thranduil vows to make Thrór pay with fear which only a parent could harbour. He soon finds Thrór's truest weakness and perhaps his own.

 **AN:** Missed me? XD Well here I am, back with yet another plot and yep...you guys guessed it. This one too has a lot of drama and angst and Thranduil's fabulousness (or...me trying lamely to write his fabulousness. Which is WRONG. Fabulousness can NOT be written. Erm, but can be tried to be written? ^^;) Anyway. Back to the point:

This is an independent little project of mine. It is AU-ish, and is Pre-Smaug.

It is screwed up. It is dark, heavy angst, revenge, death, (attempted) suspense, screwed up relationships, has sex, has power play and an author biting her nails to make it all work.

Guys do let me know what you think. I'd love to hear from you and see your suggestions.

Hope you like this~

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

As he staggered on towards the stronghold, Gelmir's breath whizzed and puffed, struggling every time he gasped to take one more gulp of life. He limped, cringing hard when the wound on his ankle throbbed hard with the metal end of an arrow still lodged in.

The royal guard swallowed thickly when at last the beginnings of his king's cavern came to view. He paused wanting to take one deep breath but moved sooner than he hoped. Fear of a life slipping was often a motivator for the desperate.

The guardsmen startled when Gelmir crashed against the door. He rolled over no sooner had he hit the great wooden pane, chest heaving hard and deep as he clambered one of the guards for support.

"Take me to the king," he said.

The guards frowned and held him up. It was at that time did one of them felt something other than the fabric on Gelmir's back. It was sticky and cold enough to blanch the other. His eyes widened in panic just as Gelmir's started becoming hazed. He asked about the metal handle the end of which was lodged deep in Gelmir's back. He tried freeing it.

"You leave it there. I will answer to the king," Gelmir answered with much strain and added at the horrified looks of others. "I will die faster if you take it off."

"Take me to the _king_ ," Gelmir insisted again. This time, they did as requested, one standing by the door with great vigil while the other escorted his fellow guard, blanching every moment as red stained him and the floor.

* * *

"Travelling north will take about ten days and ten nights, returning will be take a little more for winter is not too far behind. Perhaps we shorten our stay to...Erebor—limit it to a few days rather than weeks. The woods are peaceful for now, Valar be with us, and it wouldn't take us long to keep ready our gift for them."

Thranduil had been sitting in the throne room, cool eyes looking forward while his advisor went over the journey he would soon make to Erebor. There were rumours of the dwarf king uncovering something very rare and divine. A stone they said, the heart of the very mountain in which they dwelt and King Thrór had high expectations of Thranduil to swear fealty to him.

His eyes narrowed at the very line of thought.

Fealty to somebody was something which Thranduil had never considered in account. Not since they had inspiration to build a kingdom of their own; he didn't need to and he didn't have to. Still, fealty to Elu Thingol was a great honour.

Fealty to a _dwarf_ however...

His heart burned with scorching hatred smouldered but never extinguished. His eyes flickered with its flame at the very thought of a kind that knew nothing but greed. Had it not been for the purpose of keeping peace, Thranduil would never in his worst delirium so much as spit in Erebor let alone step in it.

All of a sudden, a loud crash echoed throughout the throne room followed by wheezes of breath, roughly pulling Thranduil away from his musings. His eyes fell on the floor, right at the base of the flight of stairs to his throne. They were trailed by dark crimson stains and at the end of the trail lay a crumpled figure of his guard who managed to hold on to the stairs with bloodied hands, looking up desperately asking his king to come closer when he clearly hadn't the strength of his own to do so.

Thranduil felt his heart sinking deep at the sight, his legs already lifting him up from his throne while he dashed for the guard. The more he came closer, clearer he witnessed the mess which was there right before his eyes. The guard's leg was wounded beyond belief; the tunic on his back now had no strand of green as dark Elven blood pooled around the hilt of a dagger sticking from his spine.

It was a wonder that he had made this far.

"My king," he started feebly, choking down a whimper as the pain becoming searing and all the more unbearable.

Thranduil quickly knelt by the elf, letting his eyes wander over the guard who now struggled to keep his vision straight. Holding him up by his shoulders, Thranduil asked with alarm seeping in his tone, "Tell me all that you know. How did this happen?"

Gelmir heaved a few times, his mouth opening and closing trying to find his voice and strength when he finally replied, "The north borders, my King. We were a handful of scouts, returning." He paused, face twitching and clenching with unbelievable agony. Thranduil held him up further, making Gelmir swallow hard, as a trembling hand held on to his own supporting arm.

"We do not know what came upon us." Gelmir went on, "Our men fell. A few scattered. There was no sound, there was no battle. All slain. All ambushed."

Thranduil remained silent. His face remained still but only through his wide eyes and their distant look could one see the cold horror beginning to latch on to the Elvenking. Even as he held the other, Thranduil shuddered when his palms felt the wetness of blood seeping through Gelmir's clothes.

He didn't trust himself to speak. His lips went dry and his tongue became entirely paralyzed with unspoken fear while his own hands started to tremble with a hopelessness that was too frightening to be true. The void in Thranduil's heart grew deer and deeper, a chilled foreboding feeling howling in it like ominous winds, all the while his colour began draining away from his face.

"And what of the others?" He asked, praying inwardly for an answer he wished to hear no matter how farfetched the wish would be.

He didn't wait for Gelmir's answer. He didn't need it. The way his chest heaved, the way is whole frame began quivering was proof enough of his estimation.

"Rûmil?"

Gelmir quietly shook his head.

"Legolas?"

He had not been found and Thranduil's worst fear was confirmed. But he wasn't allowd dtime to mourn.

Thranduil was once more pulled away from the shock when his sense of duty struck him. Gelmir was beginning to feel cold in his arms. The blood loss was heavy haggard breaths were hot and short, hitting against Thranduil's neck as the elf struggled to hold on.

Thranduil still tried, he tried his best to sustain Gelmir as long as he could. If only to ask for more answers—any that he could find—any that would prove him wrong of his assumptions. However, much to his horror, the guard was slipping.

"Who did this? You must've seen something! A glance, anything!" Thranduil barked, almost jerking the other, as if it would shrug the lethargy away from him. It was futile. For Gelmir now began feeling heavy in his arms and the guard's eyes began to close.

"No, no tell me! Tell me something!" Thranduil's tone became sharper, louder and more desperate. "You have seen something, surely! Rúmil? Legolas? Damn you, tell me!"

It proved to be of no use for Gelmir was growing tired and limp, his energy started to fleet and ever so slowly, his eyelids started fluttering as a darkness loomed over his eyes. At that, Thranduil became all the more desperate.

"There must be someone who has seen! There must be someone who is alive! There is, tell me who!"

A sharp gasp escaped his lips as his hand felt the dagger. Mindlessly, Thranduil pulled it out, cringing at the choking whimper of his guard who breathed his last breath falling heavily upon Thranduil.

For a while, Thranduil sat still unmindful of the others who had gathered around their King. He felt so numb. He didn't know how he would face Galion. He didn't know how he would tell him of his son's death and how he would cope with _his_ son missing probably dangling at the brink of death!

His mind didn't respond, his heart didn't beat and whatever hope he had in him died away when he settled the lifeless body of the other on to the floor.

His eyes fell on the floor, wide and uncertain, wandering aimlessly till they caught a glimmer of the dagger lying beside him. They lazily took in the bloodied blade, so red and sick it almost made Thranduil's bowels churn with disgust and horror. His eyes moved on, scanning idly the hilt, marked and carved out of mithril.

At that, some sense returned to Thranduil and he frowned thoughtfully.

 _Mithril?_

Growing alarmed, he lent his entire focus on the hilt which seemed to have some strange carvings on them. He picked it up and inspected the marks closely. They seemed to be runes. No, language. Foreign words that belonged neither to the common tongue nor to black speech. It was too precise and crafted to belong to Mordor.

He had seen these before. He didn't know the language but the markings were of a similar kind he had come across ages ago. Back when he was still in Doriath. Back when Elu Thingol had asked to forge his doom.

It was at that moment that his heart stopped beating for an entire moment.

Terror flooded his chest as it settled deep with a horrifying realization. And the more he realized the more frantic Thranduil grew. He started trembling. A crushing feeling gathered on his chest, quickly overcoming by a fire that began burning in his eyes.

He was a fool for placing his trust in them. How could he believe to even be civil with a race known for hatred and greed and jealousy? His foolishness cost him a child he had raised and perhaps his own and only son!

They started to sting with rage, hatred and betrayal narrowing narrowed dangerously over the dagger in his hand.

Thrór never wanted his fealty. He wanted to shove his power in Thranduil's face! With the Arkenstone he had a perfect excuse. But that wasn't enough for him. He couldn't wait, the bastard. He _dared_ to take it a step further. He _dared_ to mock Thranduil and test his patience! He took his son away from him. He murdered an elfling he had raised. And he still hoped to play innocent and demand Thranduil's visit?

His trembling ceased when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. The rampant war Thranduil felt in his chest suddenly quietened down like to an eerie composure as his gaze became frigid.

"My king, what are our orders?" Asked an advisor. "The dagger alone is not a sustainable proof. They could easily deny it being theirs or them having any knowledge of the ambush. Although we know better."

Calmly, Thranduil rose up and faced him, the deathly cold glance of the king sufficient to silence anyone in the throne room.

"We have no viable proof but it is indeed a Dwarven blade," Thranduil spat his words hatefully at the dagger.

"We shouldn't jump into conclusions," a counsellor warned. "Of all things, Thrór is not a hard head. He will not use a weapon so easily traceable."

"We need to give him the benefit of doubt. If we find him responsible, we kill him!" Added another.

"He shed blood of our kin. We shed blood of his own."

"He wants to ruin us, I say we ruin _him._ "

"But what should we do? Should we make this tragedy be known to him? Should we play along?"

"He will not come here if he is guilty. He will not accept any sudden invitations right after the meeting with our King."

"My king?"

"We shall go as planned," Thranduil ordered, daring anyone to defy it and none did. "Our stay will be short. I will be escorted by a few men with one of my advisors acting as interim till I return. Have scouts search the woods, let them account of those who fell and let them go on searching for the missing. If they are not found, they are _not_ to be taken for dead." A fire burned in his eyes as he spoke, his jaws tightened as anger bubbled in his chest.

He couldn't save his old friend's son. He couldn't protect his kin. But he _refused_ to give up on Legolas.

" _Then_ we bring them to our Realm."

* * *

 **AN:** Yes, Rumil. Rumil is Galion's son and Thranduil's ward. Now...this is not mpreg but...for now, let us consider Galion being a single dad, besties with Thranduil, has a kid who...basically was around Thranduil so much that he was likea son to our fab Elvenking.

Note ' _for now'._ I change my mind...you know that though, don't you? XD

Please review~


	2. Chapter 2

**Ashes and Stones**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Disclaimer:** Let's consider a few facts—

The Hobbit OR LOTR (Or the Silmarillion) has none of this in its content.

I feel it should've been there and so I try and find subtexts...or make them (well to be more accurate, I seldom find them. Mostly make them.).

I use those subtexts and my warped up imagination and implement it here.

I warp your thoughts.

I write fanfics.

 **Conclusion:** I don't own The Hobbit. Or LOTR. Or The Simlarillion. *sniffs*

I write fanfics. *sniiiiiiifs*

 **AN:** Wow guys, the response has been amazing and I am pretty psyched to be back with another chapter! Ooookay, so unfortunately, this one doesn't have much dialogue going on here. But, I think it is sufficient to set the stage and be done with the intro. I mean, if two chapters of intro isn't enough then there should be a prologue of a prologue of a prologue. And that is tiring. Not to mention it makes no sense to me.

...Ummm, even though I kinda did it right here...O.o Whatever. Nevermind.

So, anyway, just as a gist: Legolas is still missing. Thrandy is still pissed and...a new angle has been intro'd here. Guess who's in it? ;) Okayyyy now guess why!

Once again, thank you very much for your response! I adore them!

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

In the halls of Erebor, a constant sound of footsteps echoed throughout, reverberating against walls. The sound was firm and proud, each step assuring the confidence which the owner imbibed while he walked towards the very throne he had his eyes set on.

On either side, lines of subjects stood—nobles and ladies, commoners and aristocrats— with a blend of emotion on their faces in which awe warred against wonder and reverence tried to take its own place. Their wide eyes grew even bigger as the figure went passed them one by one, following the coveted thing he held, feeling their mouths growing dry just at the mere wonder of it.

Hearts started beating faster. Where once there was a strange hollow in their chests, they now felt a throb of enticement as the distance between the figure and the throne shortened bit by bit. Slowly, the dwarf royal started ascending the steps. Each move was very careful and agonizingly painful. It was as if a test of the subjects' patience. They eagerly held their breaths, subdued the throbbing torment within and as the one finally reached the apex of the small flight of stairs, the brightness in the others' eyes increased just as the one's own started sparkling as he deemed the object in his hands.

It gave off an eerie white light that enhanced the hue of the halls which had an inherent ethereal blue glow about it. Its minimalistic carved shape was delicately traced by a short and stout finger with such gentleness as if it was a child cradled in his father's hands. Its gentle glow fell upon the one's cheeks, brows and chin, illuminating the sheer happiness coming off from him and increased the sparkle in his eyes which seemed to grow by manifolds, bouncing off the light of the stone and hiding it behind their own valour as they remained affixed on it.

Even the owner was immune to its beauty.

Moments passed where none spoke. The entire hall seemed to be in some kind of sprite-induced trance and the more they revelled, the more they felt tangling in its sweetness with a hint of lethargy which none seemed eager to shed.

At last, the figure before the throne stirred. He turned to the others and glanced at them once before making the rest of his way. All the others started to shed off their stupor as well. Once more heartbeats rose, once again, breaths hitched and eyes widened till they reached their maximum limit.

They watched silently as careful steps were made to the head of the throne, all the way to its top where there was marked a hole, perfectly shaped to the shape of the stone itself. The walk was short but seemingly limitless.

The silence was gradually broken as all around there emerged hushed sounds of whispers. They turned to murmurs as the dwarf had finally stopped. The noises started to rise evenly and gradually, speaking words of awe and wonder chanting ancient legacies in their native tongue as the stone was cautiously inched into the hole. The more it was wedged in, the deeper its rim when into the throne, more and more the humdrums grew erratically now with wild whispers and excited high pitched voices, rising more and more till none were able to hide their excitement any longer.

Finally the stone was securely set; the figure faced the others and let out an accomplished smile. The half erupted with victorious cries, chanting praises about the one dwarf ho stood regally before them, the stone shining bright over his proud stance as he looked at his subjects with silent promises and ambitions.

And the dwarven subjects cheered on. For their king, the house of Durin and the stone which they revered as the rightful gift under the rule of King Thrór.

The Arkenstone.

* * *

Thranduil restlessly paced along his chambers perking at the smallest of sounds only to deflate once again when he realized it to be nothing but footsteps of regular servants or a sweep of winds due to cross ventilation.

He roamed to and fro, running an impatient hand through his hair. Suddenly, he stopped and brought the hand over his mouth. He curled his fingers around it, clenching the area as his eyes started narrowing with a stinging sensation while a cold gust of wind seemed to blow through the void which he felt in his heart.

It had been two days since he had sent for scouts. Two days since there was any news of his son.

He gasped and breathed in before swivelling sharply on his heels and making his way for the wine. He callously poured himself a glass and downed it whole all at once thinking it would help. But it didn't. His hands still trembled but at least he had something to be distracted about—even if it was just for a moment.

Once he was finished, he poured two more cups and did the same before stopping altogether. Still holding the glass in his hands, he stared at the empty vessel as if he would find a trail which his erratic thoughts would follow.

He was sorely wrong.

Thranduil found no peace and he found no relief.

The void in his heart grew more and more, the chilling wind in it tormenting him till he wanted to stop breathing. The pain he felt seared and burned as if touched by the coldest of ice shards piercing through him like needles.

Galion had fallen into grief. He mourned for his boy. The wailing cries still rung in his ear and broke his heart. Thranduil remembered how the elf had clutched Thranduil's robe in desperation and fell on his knees, dragging himself down as well. Thranduil had remembered the bitter tears that freely fell from the grieving father's cheeks. He had felt them on is skin and clothes, he had felt the shivers and trembles while Galion wept and he relived the feeling of something trailing down his own face as he held his friend tightly as a crypt for Rúmil was made, adding to his father's misery.

They didn't have a body to mourn.

And as for Thranduil...

His son was missing. He didn't know whether he was alive, he didn't know whether Legolas was alone somewhere lying dead or _awaiting_ death.

He simply wanted some news. Good or bad. He knew he would be much at ease if he received some confirmed news of his son. He would rejoice if Legolas was alive, he would mourn bitterly if he was dead but whatever it would be, Thranduil would be _certain_.

It was the uncertainty which drove him mad and gave him so much agony.

And it was so red, oozing the tang scent of blood. The blade gleamed so cruelly, cold and crimson, mocking Thranduil with the bold runes that still floated before his eyes. It was so red, there was so much blood—on the blade, the handle, on Thranduil's hands—the blood of his people, Gelmir, Rúmil, perhaps Legolas—

Thranduil blinked and let out a sharp breath of air. His heart was pumping erratically while his vision came into a sharp focus of the present. That was a dangerous trail of thought his mind had made him wander into. To dream about it was one but to have it mingled with his current reality...

Thranduil swallowed thickly.

It was foolish of him to lose himself like that. He couldn't confuse his thoughts with his fears. It depended on him whether he would stay or fade and Thranduil knew for a fact that he _couldn't_ fade. Not yet. He had much to do.

His eyes landed on the hand holding the goblet, only to have it narrowed when he noticed himself trembling. Immediately, his attention went to the source of his misery.

The bold and arrogant race of Durin had dared to bring themselves to such low levels.

A scowl appeared dangerously on his face as hatred glowed from his eyes.

Weren't they the ones to proudly declare their arrogance and honour? Weren't they the ones to offer— out of their pride— peace between the two races? They demanded fealty but they offered peace! Thranduil was willing to _provide_ them with fealty if only for namesake _in_ _return_ of an assurance that none of his people would be harmed!

His fingers clenched tightly around the goblet as the tremors of his frame increased with his scowl.

His son was missing! His kin harmed, his best friend's son dead! Where was their honour when they wedged a dagger behind Gelmir's back? Where was their pride when they took out an innocent number of scouts? Where was their arrogance when they didn't even show themselves and slaughtered like butchers?

"My king."

A sudden voice broke him sharply out of his trance. Thranduil snapped his head back towards the source of the voice with great alarm, startling the other extremely.

He relaxed once he realized it to be a guard.

"Beg your pardon, Your Grace!" Spoke the elf who was extremely shocked at the wide emblazoned eyes which met his own. However, once the fire in those eyes started to dim, he felt himself gaining more confidence.

"What brings you here?" Thranduil asked coldly even as he felt an invisible arm wrapping itself around his throat.

He looked at the other with piercing eyes and perhaps the guard had realized what Thranduil had expected to hear for the moment later, he had dropped his gaze onto the floor. Along with it, sunk Thranduil's hopes.

The arm around his throat loosened its grip but its cold harsh fingers still lingered, choking the words that wanted to come out from Thranduil's throat.

The Elvenking sighed and turned away. He didn't want the other to see his face twisting briefly with grief. However, the grief soon washed away and his face moulded with a dangerous passion as the guard spoke once more.

"We are prepared for the journey My King," he said, looking meaningfully at Thranduil. At that, Thranduil faced the other elf once more and this time, as he lifted his eyes and gazed towards the other. A silent fire was burning behind them as they bore into the guard's face, widening extremely little before narrowing minutely with a staunch passion that elf had witnessed not two moments ago.

"And has Erebor received our ravens?" Thranduil asked with an eerie composure that betrayed the look in his gaze.

"Clearly, Your Grace," replied the guard with a light smirk.

"How soon can we leave?"

"Two days."

Thranduil's lips moved ever so little, the corners of his mouth shifting to the barest hint of a smirk as he spoke with a tone that promised nothing but torment for those who dared to cross him. "Good."

* * *

Deep within the Lonely Mountain, Thrór let his eyes scan the words which were just brought to him by a raven of the Woodland realm.

He traced a piece of green cloth with his finger and toyed with the message before crumbling it in his hands. He callously tossed it on the floor and looked at another who stood intently by his side and nodded to his grandson's silent question.

At that, Thorin smiled as did Thrór. He felt satisfied.

* * *

 **AN:** So why Rúmil? Honestly, I have noooo idea why I made him Galion's son. And I have no idea why I made _Galion_ have a son. Not a clue. But yeah, I needed someone to play that part for me and roll the plot. And...my mind works weirdly? ^^;

BUT. Thrandy's out for revenge! AND he will not only sit back and draw swords people! Literally and metaphoricaly! Erebor, watch out!

Please review and let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ashes and Stones**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything other than the plot.

 **AN:** And so it starts...

Thank you all for your wonderful response. :D

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

"King Thrór, my congratulations to you for finding a beauty as rare as this," Thranduil greeted referring to the Arkenstone. Even in his distraught mind, Thranduil couldn't deject its beauty. It was truly one of its kind that paled the most precious of all jewels in the entire Arda.

However, the amusement lasted for only moments before Thranduil was brought back to his present. He lowered his head by an invisible amount but only enough to have it deemed as courtesy. He could feel the burning gaze of the dwarf upon him, his skin shivering with disgust at the very thought of bowing for the vile creature.

"And my halls are humbled by your presence, Elvenking." Thrór replied, his tone brimming with mockery, making Thranduil to grind his jaws even further. However, the king was not done. He added words as an afterthought, "Indeed it is a rarity to find something as bright and pure in this darkening world."

At that, Thranduil straightened up, his eyes suddenly flickering with a sudden jolt when he was met with a cold and hard gaze beneath bushy brows.

His heart skipped a beat. Thrór's tone suddenly lost its charm. As if a whole new layer had been added to its cheerfulness and the way he threw his words at the Woodland king, Thranduil could almost sense some purpose beneath them.

He vaguely wondered if Thrór knew why he was here. A cold gush of air went through him as he wondered if the dwarf king had anything to do with the cold blooded act carried out back in his home.

Despite it all, Thranduil remained calm. Even though his heart pounded with anxiety, every muscle in his being revolted at any form of composure, Thranduil managed to limit his reactions.

"Truly spoken," he answered. The flicker in his eyes faded away just as soon as it had appeared. Slowly, he nodded his head in acknowledgement of what Thrór would later deem it as his jest while a strained smile crept on his lips.

The other king remained still for moments longer. The gleam in his eyes was still visible. His face had no trace of his thoughts and it seemed like the older dwarf was actually _analyzing_ Thranduil.

It made the Elvenking bristle with anger.

He knew about the insolence of dwarves. But he would not tolerate being treated as a hostile when it was _he_ who had suffered much at _their_ hands! With that, Thranduil straightened and met gazes level by level. He noticed the narrowing of eyes on Thrór's part. Perhaps the dwarf king hadn't anticipated the possibility of brazenness from the elves. But Thranduil didn't soften. He lifted his chin with much haughtiness and let the dare in him be known as he too studied the dwarf.

It wasn't that only he had something to hide.

The air around the, grew extremely humid with tension. Not a single word was spoken and not a single muscle was moved. It was as if both were dancing carefully around each other, studying, _observing_ and waiting for the one who would crack first.

All of a sudden, Thrór drew back and let out a chuckle, startling Thranduil greatly if only for a moment.

"Ah so the lore of elven stubbornness is true," The king sounded like he jested. It would perhaps draw out laughter from others but for Thranduil all it managed to do was churn his insides with utter hatred for the other.

"As is that of dwarves, Your Grace," Thranduil replied promptly, smirking when his comment drew a smile on Thrór's face.

But even if the tension in the throne room lessened, the storm in Thranduil's heart did not. There was a little voice at the back of his head which warned him.

Could Thrór have guessed? Could he see through Thranduil's facade? The elf did all he could to keep himself neutral. He was careful not to spread words about the ambush to others. But did Thrór know nevertheless? Did he have spies? Or was it _him_ that had the gruesome act committed?

His mind failed to grasp why Thrór behaved that way and before he could start assembling any logic, he found his eyes pulled towards another figure that walked towards him upon his king's gesture. When the person came forward, Thranduil's heart sped at an alarming rate while his eyes struggled not to widen too much.

It was another dwarf. One who was much younger in age and stronger in built. But what caught Thranduil's attention was his face. It was so familiar, as if ghost of a memory long haunting his mind.

Thranduil's heart started to beat wildly as a cold wave of anxiety ran down his spine.

Thranduil knew he had seen the dwarf somewhere. He didn't know why but he had a strong feeling that he had known this dwarf all along but no matter how hard he racked his rain, he couldn't for the love of Elbereth, place this face with his own haunting memory.

His jaws were strong and firm, his thick brown mane splayed smoothly about his broad shoulders and as he stood, chest swollen with pride, Thranduil felt the full intensity of those charcoal black orbs which seemed to grow brighter with a flame akin to his own as the younger one stared right at the Elvenking.

Thrnaduil waited for Thrór to introduce the newly cited person. However, when Thrór did nothing to introduce him, it was then that confusion started to build within the Elvenking's mind.

Could it be...?

He watched the younger one coldly as he came and stood before him. The chest he carried with him was filled with gestures of good faith undoubtedly and he silently stood by his king and kept on staring at Thranduil, a silent fire burning behind his eyes.

"A token of our gratitude. Accept this if you please," spoke the younger dwarf. His tone had every ounce of confidence as there was in his carriage. In fact, it was so regal and so proud that even the great Elvenking couldn't help but feel a shudder through his chest.

He smiled and reached forward, letting his eyes droop on the lid.

Suddenly his heart stopped entirely for a moment and his widened eyes fell upon the very lid in question.

There were symbols on them. _Runes_. He had seen those runes.

Terror filled him from within, chilling his blood as his mind whirled with a new and abrupt realization.

The same runes on the dagger...

Until then, whatever suspicion Thranduil had held now solidified into firm belief.

It was indeed Erebor behind the ambush. It was indeed Erebor who had killed Rúmil and it was Erebor for whom his own son was now lost!

He had heard someone speak but the sound was too faint in his ears where blood rushed like rapids. He couldn't think any more. His knees felt too weak and mouth soured by the bile which threatened to rise to his throat.

They had done it. They were the ones!

Anger bubbled in his heart as he desperately tried to keep his face neutral.

The vile creatures, the backstabbers! They couldn't even face those few elves honourably! And the insolence of them...mocking Thranduil, dangling their feat before him, shoving it to his face like a glorified achievement.

He suddenly flinched when the lid was closed and as Thranduil straightened himself, his flaming orbs regarded the young dwarf as another understanding washed him.

He now had an idea who this person was. Now he knew why there was a ghost of a face in this one's features. Thranduil was seeing none other but Thrór in the younger one.

The prince of Erebor. Heir to the king. Possibly son to the king? In fact, if this was Thráin, then why was he not introduced? Why did Thrór hide his identity? Why was Thrór _protecting_ him? One did not need such protection unless he had something to do that might irk Thranduil. Something like...

 _Murder_.

"Is His Highness spellbound by our gifts so much that he can hardly speak?"

Thranduil's attention was once more snapped back into the present as the booming voice of the other king echoed throughout the halls. There was that sickening tine again—playful, mocking and tempering his patience.

But Thranduil knew better. The dwarf was proud and he was a fool. He thought he would goad and taunt Thranduil till he broke down. But Thranduil wouldn't. He would _crush_ these foul creatures.

His demeanour changed instantly. The storm in his heart grew eerily calm just as his mind cleared up, processing thoughts methodically with a lethal edge.

Biting down the harsh words that were at the tip of his tongue, Thranduil now answered in his own voice laced with honey and sharp as a sword, "I can hardly speak whenever I see beauty before me, Your Grace. And a rarity such as these always shall have me spellbound especially where it is least expected to be seen." Thrór's smug smile faltered at Thranduil's reply much to the elf's satisfaction.

He cast a lazy glance over to the younger dwarf who was now looking at him with some kind of odd emotion on his face. There was passion in his eyes but it was not so much of hatred as it was of amusement and admiration. And as Thranduil extended his smirk towards the other, the shine in his eyes grew even brighter.

With a cool smirk, the Elvenking now added, "After all, something as bright and pure in this darkening world."

At that, the shine in the young one's eyes increased just as the anger in Thrór's face.

Thranduil knew that look. He had not expected it but now that he had received a hint of it, he felt something churning in his mind. The dwarf was awed by him. He was young and just of age.

"But such humility goes to a waste if I do not savour the splendour of your halls," The Elvenking went on speaking. He had seen something that only a fool would be daring enough to waste. He saw an opportunity. A weak link in Erebor's strong armour. It was feeble but Thranduil could wear it down. "Please, may I be shown to my chamber? The journey was long and King Thrór isn't inhospitable enough to let his guests find their own way, I have heard."

The shadow in the dwarf kings face grew even thicker. He looked sharply at Thranduil, frustration and anger whirling in him as he was almost on the verge of throttling him then and there.

"Allow me to lead the way."

"Thorin!" Suddenly, the king's head snapped at the one whom he had least expected to speak.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes with satisfaction. His play had worked. He had a name and now a complete identity.

It wasn't the king's son, as he had thought initially. The son was missing, or hidden, adding one more puzzle piece to the whole ordeal.

It wasn't the son. No, this one was far more precious.

The grandson.

The Elvenking looked over to the older one as Thrór spoke something to the other in his native tongue. Thrór was not at all pleased at Thorin's proposal. If anything, Thranduil guessed that he was trying his best to dissuade his heir.

At that, the prince seemed to deflate and replied something to his kin, once casting a glance at Thranduil. Thrór bristled at that even though his face gave none of it away. He spoke something firmly at which, his heir finally stopped protesting and stepped back from the elf and joined the king who now came down from his throne.

There was no order in Thrór's tone—oh no! _That_ was no order. It was something even sweeter which Thranduil knew all too well.

He himself had used it so many times over Legolas. _Concern_.

And the way Thrór almost jumped at Thranduil for even speaking flattering words, it was easily guessed how much loved the heir was. And how much of a leverage the grandson would be.

At last, the king gave in and Thorin gestured towards him, leading the way. Thranduil soon followed suit but while he turned, he revelled in the dangerous glare which Thrór threw towards him, promising nothing but death if Thranduil had any wrong intention.

However, all it did was strengthen Thranduil's assumption.

The son was missing, true. But the grandson...

Thranduil's eyes narrowed satisfactorily.

Thorin would be a _much_ precious leverage.

* * *

In his halls, Thrór had been pacing restlessly ever since Thorin and Thranduil departed from there. He had never expected Thorin to volunteer, he had never even dreamed of his grandson having such brightness in his face and all for whom? The elf! The greedy creature who brought nothing but ruin and death!

He had hoped Thranduil to take the jewels. He had sorely believed that Thranduil would try and take the Arkenstone, which was why Thrór had him brought here in the first place!

But the damned elf! He had taken his grandson! But that was not all.

His frown deepened as his mind went back to when the chest was presented to Thranduil. Thrór had seen how surprised he became as he saw the lid, he had seen how Thranduil's eyes widened with shock and awe. It was as if he had never hoped to face the same thing once more in Erebor. It was as expected. The elf had clearly seen the chest, he had clearly seen its content and as Thrór had hoped, he failed to see the duplicate of the real chest he had had carefully crafted as soon as _that news_ reached him.

The way he blanched had spoken volumes that any words could convey. Now, Thrór had no doubt in his mind. Thranduil was involved. And he would try and take whatever materialistic thing his greedy eyes fell upon. And he would do so by any means necessary.

 _Thorin_.

He would use his grandson...

He stopped abruptly feeling anger and fear plummeting down in his chest with he started weaving together loose threads of his understanding.

The son of a bitch would use his grandson for his dirty purpose and if Thorin didn't comply then he would...

Thrór swallowed hard as terror chilled his bones.

He suddenly turned on his heels and addressed two guards beside his throne.

"Station near his chamber when he is least aware of it. I will have his companions be rested elsewhere." The guards bowed in acknowledgement.

Thrór would not tolerate any more bloodshed of his own kin. Once was enough.

"Guard him. If he tries anything," He ordered again with an intending tone, "then kill him."

* * *

 **AN** : Confused? It's okay. My mind never works in a simple manner. However, I can tell you this much as of now: Thranduil's not the only one with a serious agenda. Thrór has some perfectly good reason to hate Thranduil as Thranduil hated Thrór. And you had thought it was the dwarves who are the only bad guys, right? ;) Hmmmm...or are they? Or are they not?

Anyway, I know this is a bit confusing. So feel free to ask me any question regarding this. And I will answer as best as I can without giving too much of the plot away. :)


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